A Haunted Life
by X-parrot
Summary: Some hauntings require salt and fire. Others aren't that easy. Dean runs into someone he knows, and Sam tries to make things right.


_Set at some indeterminate point mid-season 12._

 _Title from Jack Kerouac,_ On the Road _: "I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost."_

 _(A lot of my titles are quotes; I rarely source them because I worry it seems pretentious and also like I'm better read than I am. Really I just get desperate for titles and start Googling. But given_ On the Road _'s influence on SPN, this one seemed especially fitting.)_

* * *

It's not the first time it's happened. Even as big as America is, if you cross the country enough times, you're bound to intersect with your own path, eventually.

And yeah, as hunters, they do their best not to get noticed, not to get remembered, not to get arrested. But sometimes they try harder than others. And sometimes Dean doesn't really try at all.

So when they're at a diner in the middle of nowhere, Idaho, and the waitress stops at their table, coffee pot in hand but not pouring, just looking at their faces—at Dean's face—with her brow furrowing, Sam's not surprised. Resigned, maybe, but not surprised.

She's as attractive as would be expected, slender, brunette, blue eyes. "Dean?" she says, and Sam rolls his eyes, settles back in the booth as Dean leans forward, lips curving up in an easy smile.

"Hey," he says, "how you doing?" nonchalantly friendly, casually familiar, and Sam almost rolls his eyes again, because Dean has no idea who she is. Which is bordering on disrespectful, because he hasn't been with _that_ many women, at least not since he hit thirty, and it's not like Dean ever really forgets a face. But sometimes with his hook-ups, Sam thinks he tries to, out of habit, or maybe some weird hope for sympathetic magic. As if by forgetting them he can make himself forgotten, because Dean is a hunter and they try not to leave tracks.

This woman hasn't forgotten him, though. Her eyes are still fixed on Dean, as she sets the coffee pot down on the table. "Maybe you should go," she says evenly.

Sam's eyebrows go up. For all of Dean's exploits, he rarely leaves his companions anything but satisfied. Wistful, sometimes, or occasionally frustrated. Rarely more, not since he was a teenager and hadn't yet figured out that honesty's the only way to win that game. Dean may not give his real name or his actual job, but he never gives any promises he can't keep, either. And usually he makes it obvious the name he's under isn't his real one, which is a promise in itself.

But before he mastered that romantic finesse, there were a few epic confrontations and at least one full-on catfight. And it's with a little brother's eidetic memory for an elder's missteps that Sam smirks slightly now, staying quiet and completely out of it, as Dean stumbles through a faltering smile, "Uh, hey, excuse me, I didn't..."

"Both of you, now," the waitress says, blue eyes flicking to Sam for an instant before jumping back to Dean. Her voice is still calm, but there's a slight tremor in it. "Or I'll have Jerry call the cops."

Sam's smile drops, mentally recalibrating from a romance gone wrong to a hunt gone worse—victim? Relative of one of their targets? He straightens up in the booth, looks to Dean to gauge how bad it is.

And sees the moment Dean finally places this woman, by how his expression flattens, every feeling steamrolled down. "Yeah," Dean says, "sorry, yeah—we'll go," and he starts to slide out of the booth. Stops, glancing up at the woman standing there and then away, to wait, head ducked, eyes on the table.

The waitress takes a breath, takes a step back. She's still watching Dean, tense and trying not to be, by the hand curling into a fist and then unclenching at her side.

"Hey," Sam says as he stands, pitching his voice low, appeasing. "We don't want any trouble, we're just—"

"Sam," Dean says, expressionless as his face. "Come on."

Sam ducks his head in a silent pardon and follows his brother out of the diner.

* * *

Past problems or not, they've still got a present haunted house in town to deal with. It's after dark, too late for interviews, so they get a room in the lone motel off the interstate, half a mile from the diner.

As they prep salt rounds for the night's investigation, Sam watches Dean, the forced square of his shoulders ratcheting down as his jaw unclenches. It takes a lot longer than it should, for Sam to gauge it a good time to ask—not quite casually, but light enough to offer an out, "So, that waitress—what hunt was it? I don't remember seeing her before."

"There wasn't a hunt," Dean says. "I wasn't on a hunt."

"Oh," Sam says. "So then, how'd you..."

"Dude, you're in your thirties," Dean says. "Do I really have to spell it out for you?"

Sam frowns. "So what happened?"

Dean sighs exaggeratedly. "Okay, Sammy, sometimes when two people get horny—"

"Seriously, Dean," Sam says. "She wasn't joking about calling the cops. What'd you do?"

He's watching Dean closely enough to see his brother's hand tighten around the shotgun stock, then release it. His tone stays level, indifferent. "It wasn't a big deal. I slept with her a couple times, a couple years ago."

"And?"

"And it was enough for her to get to know me," Dean says. Pulls on a smirk that he's going to be too old for, in a few more years. "So, the cops."

"Dean," Sam starts to say.

But Dean is done cleaning the shotgun, tosses it into the bag and stands. "Come on, ghost's waiting."

* * *

The night's break-in is a bust—plenty of EMF, but no manifestations. They don't make it back to the motel until past two AM, and Dean barely takes the time to kick off his boots before he's flopped across his bed and snoring.

They'd gone to the McDonald's across the street for dinner, and Dean takes them to the drive-through for breakfast, too, though the diner down the road has waffles and pie both. Sam doesn't comment, but he's thinking about it.

It bothers him. Not Dean avoiding the place; that's standard hunter protocol, even if the waitress probably isn't on shift yet. But that he has to. That the woman had been so angry.

Except not just angry. Anger, Sam could get. His brother's pissed him off enough times, and more. If Dean had miscalculated, gotten too close and then cut ties, left her hoping, or heartbroken...

But that woman's fist at her side, the way she'd stepped back. She'd been scared.

And that bothers Sam. Not that Dean can't be a scary son of a bitch. They both can, Sam knows; they're big, strong men who dress like low-rent serial killers and drive around with an arsenal in the trunk and gank monsters for a living.

But the women Dean sleeps with—they aren't scared of him. That's not one of the truths he ever needs to share with them. Unless it's to protect someone who's gotten dragged into a hunt, and then his biggest problem is avoiding the hero worship. Which Dean doesn't particularly bother doing; he's got the knight-errant routine, _just passing through, happy to help and now see me off with a smile,_ down to a science, or a fine art.

But even when he was a clumsy teenager, fumbling with bra straps and breaking hearts, Dean never frightened any of the girls he was with. They wouldn't hesitate to slap him and then would let him drive them home, even if they were raging mad or sobbing—more tempers than tears; Dean learned to select for that pretty fast.

But this woman been scared. And Sam doesn't know why. _"Enough to get to know me,"_ Dean had said—but not as a hunter. And that's the only part of Dean that should scare anyone, if they know him at all.

Sam knows better than to ask his brother. They're split up for most of the day anyway, Sam researching in the local library and town hall while Dean interviews the cops and coroner about the recent string of deaths.

But come evening, Sam volunteers to pick up supper. Then takes the Impala down the road to the diner.

The brunette waitress isn't in sight when Sam enters. Maybe she has the night off. Sam orders a burger and a chicken salad wrap, takes a seat to wait for it. A booth by the kitchen, so he's there when the doors flip open and the waitress comes out, adjusting her apron as she calls something to the cook over her shoulder.

Then she sees Sam and stops. He meets her eyes, and she slides her hand into her pocket as she marches over to him.

"I got 9-1-1 on speed-dial," she says.

"It's just me," Sam says. He makes sure to stay seated, keeping her head a foot above his. "Dean's not here. And I'm not going to make any trouble, I'm just getting some takeout."

He waits as she studies him, wary eyes going from his face to his hands, resting deliberately and empty on the tabletop, to the Impala parked outside. "Fine," she says at last.

Starts to turn away, and Sam says, "We should be heading out of town soon. Couple days, probably."

"Good," the woman says. The 'riddance _'_ is not quite verbalized.

There's not much Sam can say to that, so he doesn't try. The waitress goes to fill the coffees of the couple at the counter, then stops to chat with the college-age kid at the cash register. It's late enough past the dinner hour that the place is nearly empty.

Sam's got his tablet out, is paging through the local newspaper for clues to their haunted house, when he hears the tap of the waitress's returning footsteps. Looks up into her narrowed blue eyes.

"Are you sleeping with him?" she asks. "Or just a buddy?"

"I'm not sleeping with him," Sam says.

"Good," she says. "Don't. You..." Her jaw clenches, teeth grinding for a second. "I'd say you seem like a nice guy. But I'm a lousy judge of character."

"It's difficult, when you meet a lot of people at work, but don't have a chance to really get to know many of them," Sam offers. "You can make guesses, but you can't prove if you're right."

The waitress almost smiles at that. "It's something I'm working on." She looks to the kid at the register, exchanges a nod, then takes a seat in the booth opposite Sam. "Here's the thing...Sam, was it?"

Sam nods, inclines his head in a question she could ignore.

But she doesn't, replies back, "I'm Annie. So here's the thing, Sam. I don't know you, or what kind of Fear-and-Loathing road trip you're on with Dean now. And you don't know me, so you probably won't listen. But if you are a nice guy—or even if you're not—you should cut him loose."

"Dean?"

Annie nods. "Get out, now. Before he drags you into something. Or whatever he's into catches up with him."

"What do you mean?" Sam asks, keeping his voice even, his tone earnest. Open-minded for whatever monster or ghost she saw, or maybe doubts she saw.

"Listen, I'm sure he's a fun guy to hang out with," she says. Folds her hands on the tabletop in front of her, chewing on her lower lip. "That bad boy act—but it's not an act. And what he really is...you've probably seen it. How long have you been rolling with him? A few weeks? Longer?"

Sam shrugs, noncommittal, and Annie exhales. "Maybe you thought it was a joke, or that the other guy had it coming—but it's not. That's not it. That's what he's really like, underneath." Two of her fingers are rubbing over her knuckles, polished nails glinting. "I didn't...when I knew him. I didn't know, I didn't find out until afterwards. There were deaths—murders. Stabbings. A couple of them in the area. People from out of town, and it wasn't a great neighborhood to begin with, but...it stopped, after he left."

"And you think Dean...?"

"I know," Annie says, and her fingers stop moving, interlocking tight enough for the knuckles to whiten. "I didn't want to believe it. I'd slept with some real pieces of work, but that... And then, a couple states away, there was this police bulletin, another killing, and they had a shot of the guy who did it. It was supposed to be some vigilante thing, but that wasn't what it was about, not really. I know. I'd seen him—I'd seen it in him. That...brutality. Wanting to hurt. Look into his eyes sometime—really _look_ , and you'll see."

"See what?"

"Nothing, " Annie says. "There's nothing—he's got nothing inside. Just darkness. Pitch black." She gives her head a shake, raises her eyes from her clasped hands to lock onto Sam's. "Whatever he does, jokes, smiles, gets trashed, whatever, it's all just covering. Pretending to be human, when really he's this—monster. This cruel, cold monster."

"Oh," Sam says. It's about all he can say. It feels a little like she took her folded-up fists and drove them into his solar plexus; it's hard to breathe around it.

Annie, studying his face, frowns. "You have seen it," she says.

"No," Sam says. "Or—yeah, but... Yeah, I know what you're talking about."

Her mouth pinches up tight and upset, then softens as she looks at him, sees something there that makes her say, "Hey. Sam?" She pries her fingers apart to reach across the table and put one of her hands over his. "Whatever's going on with you and him, if you need something—a phone call, or a bus ticket, I could spot you some cash—"

Her hand is cold, clammy from being pressed so tight. Sam breathes out, doesn't pull his hand away. Doesn't put his own hand over her cold one, though he wants to. "No," he says, making his voice steady. "It's okay. That's just..." He looks at her, searches her face more closely. It's been a long time—two and a half years, since she met Dean, and it's not like he's a psychologist. But he's seen enough trauma, from both sides. All sides. "What about you? Did he...did Dean hurt you?"

She shakes her head. "Not really. Just my feelings. And that was...I was lucky. Afterwards, seeing that bulletin, I realized how lucky."

"I'm sorry," Sam says. "I'm so sorry."

Annie's forehead crinkles. "Hey, it's not like you were there. This was a couple years ago. The douche he was hanging out with then—I thought that guy was a bad influence. But it was probably going the other way."

Sam's trying to relax his expression, like he would on a case, during an investigation, but he's not pulling it off. Not enough for Annie's brow to smooth out. Her fingers close around his, a gentle squeeze. "Really," she says. "It's okay. It ended up being a good thing for me."

"Good?"

"It was a wake-up call, I guess," she says. "I'd gone through some stuff...I was going through some stuff. After that, finding out what he really was—it put things in perspective. Made me look at my life, my choices, you know. And I didn't like what I saw. So I changed it. Got out, moved away. Got a new job, started hanging around with new kinds of people. I met a guy, a good one. And now we have a daughter, she just turned three months old. So yeah, everything's good. Except now that Dean's here—"

"Don't worry," Sam says. "He'll be out of here soon."

Annie's mouth twists into almost a smile. "He figure out that the only bar in town doesn't have a karaoke machine?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Sam says, not trying to smile back. Not sure if she'd want it, not sure if he could.

There's a clearing-throat cough from the other end of the diner. "Uh, 'scuse me, Annie," the kid at the register says, holding up a paper bag, "but this dude's order is ready?"

Sam gets up out of the booth. Annie follows him to the register. Sam makes sure he gets out his wallet quickly, before she can offer to pay, collects the food.

Annie stops him at the door with a hand on his arm. "Sam," she says. "If you want, you could just wait here—after my shift is done, I can give you a lift to the bus station—"

"No—thanks, it's all right," Sam says.

Her eyes are wide, concerned. "I never... I didn't know what he was, when I was with him. I don't know what he would've done if I had found out, if I'd said something—maybe he would've just laughed it off, but if he didn't—"

"It's okay, Annie," Sam says. "I'm...I'm not going back to Dean. I'm going to see my brother."

That finally clears the worry from her face. "Oh, good," she says. "That's a good idea—does he live nearby?"

"He's in the area," Sam says. "I'll be all right—it'll be all right, Annie. Really."

Annie frowns a little at that, but doesn't ask. Lets go of his arm instead, and says, "Well, then, good luck, Sam."

"You, too," Sam says, and walks out of the diner into the foggy night.

* * *

When Sam gets back to the motel, Dean is on his laptop, looking through scans of old police reports. "I think I got something," he says when Sam walks in, and launches into his theory about the specter they're stalking. Which matches neatly with Sam's own conclusions from the last decade's newspaper articles, and their discussion is involved enough that Dean barely takes notice of the burger Sam unwraps and hands him, just wolfs it down between looking up local cemeteries to find the bones they need to salt and burn.

Sam almost gets away with it. He's crumpling up the wrappers to toss them in the trash, when Dean suddenly reaches over his laptop to pluck the bag out of Sam's hand. Frowns at the white, unlabeled paper. "This isn't McDonald's."

"No," Sam says, "that's why there was kale on your burger."

"Wait, that was—" Dean scowls, petulant—then narrows his eyes, just a fraction but his whole face changes, from disgusted toddler to genuine temper. "You went back to the diner."

Sam shrugs. "Three squares at McDonald's is my limit, and there's nowhere else to go in town. And they're organically sourced, too, local produce."

Dean grits his teeth. "Sam, I told you to let it go—"

"No, you didn't say that."

"It was implied!"

"I saw Annie," Sam says. "I talked with her a bit."

Dean stiffens. Freezes like his blood's turned to ice, then slowly thaws, enough for him to lean back in his chair, cross his arms over his chest. It would look angry, except for the curling in of his shoulders. "Yeah?"

"She's nice," Sam says. "Kind. And she's doing well. She has a good life here, Dean."

"Great," Dean says. Flatly, and his shoulders are still rigid.

"I'm sorry," Sam says quietly.

Dean couldn't have gotten any tenser if he'd been hit with a taser. "You didn't tell her that, did you?"

"No," Sam says. "Or, yes, but...not for you. Just in general. Sorry about her shitty luck."

"It wasn't luck," Dean growls. "It was—I—she was a waitress at one of the bars we were wasting time in, and I..."

"She found out about the killings," Sam says. "Those demons Crowley was feeding you—she figured out you were a killer. That's what had her scared. Nothing you did to her. Which you know."

They don't talk much about it these days. Like a lot of things in their past, only once in a while, if they really need to. But Dean remembers all of it, Sam knows. What he was, what he did. "But she didn't know," Sam says. "She didn't know you."

Dean's glare skews up to pin him like a beetle on a board. "Yeah, she did. Don't feed me that crap, when you won't eat it—'It wasn't you.' Wasn't me. Except for all the parts that were."

He pushes his chair away from the table. Rocks his head back to look up at the ceiling. Sam says nothing. Eventually Dean says, "She went by Anne-Marie then. And she's dyed her hair—or was dyeing it—she was blonde before. That's why it took me a minute to place her."

Sam continues to hold the line. Dean swallows, throat working, goes on, "And because I didn't care. I just...I was bored and she was hot. That was it. And she wanted it—wanted me—but if she hadn't... Maybe I would've said screw it, too much work, and looked elsewhere. Or maybe not. I don't know. I remember it, I remember being...that. But I don't know."

Sam doesn't know, either. He has his own experiences, albeit more removed; it was a good half a year before the wall had come down. The memories all overlap, his soul's and his body's; but the demarcation is pretty clear, except in his nightmares, once in a while.

But there's still enough uncertainty for him to know that he can't draw that line for Dean. As much as he wishes he could, that he could inscribe a devil's trap around that demon, wall it off forever.

Sam has more nightmares about that. Sometimes it's the hammer against his head. Sometimes it's the knife in his own hand. He knows which is worse. (He can tell himself the knife probably wouldn't have worked anyway, against a Knight of Hell. But it always does in his dreams.)

All Sam has to say now is, "Whatever happened before—Annie's happy now, Dean. She has a job at a place better than a dive bar. A boyfriend, a baby girl—"

Dean inhales sharply at that, and Sam says hastily, "Only a couple months old, dude. Or I would've told you. So yeah, she's doing great. And all she wants from you is to never see you again."

Dean jerks his head back up to scowl at Sam. "That much I knew."

"So you can do that," Sam says.

"Like I was trying to do. If I'd known she'd moved..."

Sam wants to apologize again. But Dean's not angry with him, not really. And there's too much that words can't fix, no matter how heartfelt. Instead he just says, "It sucks, man."

Dean sighs, finally lets his tense shoulders fall with the exhalation. "Yeah."

They sit for a moment in silence, until Sam extends his arm across the table, turns Dean's laptop toward him. "So have you found the grave?" he asks. Because at least there are some ghosts out there they can lay to rest.

* * *

The salt and burn takes half the night. They sleep in, then go back to the house. There's no readings anymore, but they stick around for another day, convince the coroner the strokes weren't an outbreak of some conspiracy-driven plague, make sure none of the victims' families show signs of hauntings.

They eat McDonald's, and Sam doesn't voice any protest. Though when he passes on ordering that evening, Dean pulls them out of the drive-through, heads down to the local supermarket. They get the fixings for Italian hoagies, as best they can with the tiny grocery's limited selection, hotdog buns with cheap bologna subbing for capicola and American cheese for provolone. But Sam slices a tomato and onion with a serrated skinning knife, and Dean carefully layers the meats so the dressing doesn't get the bread soggy.

They hit the road the next morning. A little after noon, speeding down the open Wyoming highway, Sam takes out his cell phone, turns down the Metallica in the tape deck. Dean in the driver's seat glances over at him, but doesn't ask.

Sam didn't get her number, but the menu had the diner's, and they're open for lunch now. When he asks to speak to Annie, Dean straightens his back but keeps his mouth shut, his eyes on the road.

 _"Hello?"_ Annie says on the other end of the line.

"Hey, it's Sam," Sam says. "We met at the diner, a couple evenings ago?"

 _"I know_ — _how are you doing? Did you make it to your brother?"_

"Yeah," Sam says. "I did. It's all right, I can always count on him."

 _"Good."_ He can hear her smile, warm and open. _"I'm glad to hear it."_

"I wanted to tell you," Sam says, "if you're ever in trouble, you can call this number. Okay? I might not be able to help, but sometimes I can. It's kind of what we do, me and my brother."

 _"Um, sure."_

"Also," and he glances to the seat next to him. Then back to the highway rolling out before them. "Just so you know, Dean won't be coming anywhere near your town. You'll never see him again—he won't be hurting anyone again. I promise."

Annie is silent for a breath. Finally says, _"What did you...do I want to...?"_

"No," Sam says. "Probably not. But I—my brother and I. We wanted you to know."

He takes the phone down from his ear, turns on the speaker in time for Annie to say, softly, _"Thank you."_

Dean is holding his breath, silent and still but for the little motions of his hands to keep the wheel straight. "You're welcome," Sam says. "Good luck with everything," and he hangs up. Waits for a moment, but Dean doesn't say anything. He starts breathing again, though.

So Sam puts the music back on, slides down enough to lean his head against the seat back.

Halfway through "Nothing Else Matters," he's dozing off, when Dean finally says, "It's not bad. Kale on a burger—it's sacrilege, but it's not half bad."

"So I should get you a wrap next time?"

"Let's not go crazy," Dean says.

Sam smiles, drops his head back down on the seat. "Wake me when we get to Colorado, I'll drive us the rest of the way home," he says, and closes his eyes.

 _the end_


End file.
